


Interruptions

by valiantfindekano



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 5 Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 12:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2547542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon & Maedhros, and how they misbehaved at court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interruptions

The downside to Maedhros’ visits was that business could not stop on his behalf, and visits could not be purely for the sake of pleasure in the first place. A social call was well enough, and few would argue that they were a necessary aspect of diplomacy between Hithlum and eastern Beleriand. But the Lord of Himring could not abandon post for diplomacy alone, and the Crown Prince of the Noldor had responsibilities to keep to as well. 

While Maedhros visited, responsibilities of the ordinary kind could be put on hold. Last week they’d argued about whether or not it was necessary to fortify Annon-in-Gelydh. Half were against it, now that Nevrast was abandoned, and half were in support of it for that very reason, fearing that it could easily become overrun and defended by goblins if left to the elements. Fingon had suggested a small garrison of scouts to keep watch over the area, which had turned the discussion to a debate of how many a _small_ garrison actually entailed, and who among them should be rerouted from the north to the west. 

Then Maedhros arrived, and Fingon had to say that he was glad of the respite from that particular argument. Specifics, as a rule, annoyed him; once the general rule was agreed upon, could everyone not try to compromise and ease the plans along?

It was all too easy to predict this conversation hurdling down the same road. With Maedhros and a select number of his lords and guildmasters present, their focus was on trade. Naturally, it was the guildworkers who had the most to say, knowing the proceedings of their professions better than anyone else, and having the most at stake from the decidings of their superiors. Back and forth they had chattered—not in outright hositility, but in waves of tension that mounted and then lulled again. It had been Fingon’s attention to come to some kind of agreement in time for dinner, but the shadows had grown very long, and each time he interrupted, the implication in his words did not seem to quite sink in. 

His mind eventually started to wander. Mostly it wandered towards considering dinner; the cooks had made many rabbits for him lately, and he was growing tired of their meat. Maybe he could find time for a hunt before Maedhros left. The stags would be in season, and if they went far enough from Eithel Sirion, they might find boar. A bull-moose from the northern slopes would be a great chance to show off as well, especially since he knew those deer did not generally wander far enough east to reach the March.

Fingon’s reverie was broken, however, by someone touching his shoulder. He started, and Maedhros’ copper head lolled away. A second later, however, it was back, a heavy weight against his side.  _Was he asleep?_  

The prince coughed quietly. This time his cousin’s eyes flickered open, and he drew away again, meeting the curious gazes with heavy-lidded confusion. A smile forced its way onto Fingon’s lips at that; Maedhros looked like a sleepy child fighting to stay awake past his bedtime, his hair even sneaking away from his plaits to stand at strange angles. 

“I’m listening,” Maedhros mumbled, though he shot a guilty look towards Fingon a moment later. 

Fingon giggled under his breath.

* * *

Nelyafinwë Maitimo, eldest of Fëanáro’s brood of cunning and wicked sons, was without a doubt the most asinine, stubborn, pig-headed fool that Findekáno had ever had the misfortune to know. And now he was stuck in Finwë’s council-room with the brat, forced to stare at his chiseled, sneering face, feeling the toxic aura that seemed to radiate off him.

Findekáno thought it had been an innocent enough comment yesterday, but his cousin was not in agreement (because he was stubborn and pig-headed and couldn’t ever listen to anyone else). Maitimo had every advantage an Elda could hope for, and was he even willing to share it with his lover?

No, because that meant Findekáno was ‘intruding on a beloved family practice.’ 

He’d only wanted to see the far edges of Aman, where he’d never been with his own father and where he was not likely to go. And maybe he’d pushed for it even after the initial refusal. It was still an unnecessary overreaction on Maitimo’s part, which had warranted Findekáno’s sharp words…

Well, if Maitimo thought he’d get away without an apology, he was wrong. He could play at being offended, but Findekáno would happily put his endurance to the test, even if that meant waiting to spend time with him until after next week’s confounded journey.

In the meantime, he wasn’t going to let their spat distract him from aiding their grandfather in court. “Are there no Maiar who could help?” Findekáno asked (and he was demonstrably not looking at Maitimo, not even from the corner of his eye). “It would spare our craftsmen expending their energy unnecessarily— 

Maitimo snorted. “Raising the walls is unnecessary, is it? Interesting theory. But Tulkas already explained that the way his servants work would likely endanger us. Their methods of lifting and working stone can be wild and—“ 

“If you would  _listen,_  you’d remember I said our craftsmen could be better used elsewhere.” Findekáno glared; the interruption was bad enough, but the condescension that dripped from his cousin’s voice made it infinitely worse. 

“Where do you propose they go? Lazing about in the fields? I’m sure they’d love to have no hand in building their own guild-hall.” 

“I meant only the lifting—“

Finwë raised a hand, and dutifully, both Findekáno and Maitimo quieted, though they took a moment to narrow their eyes at one another across the table. “This is not a matter for argument,” Finwë corrected gently. “Findekáno, it is a good suggestion, and perhaps if Tulkas’ servants are unwilling to aid, we may still find others—but Maitimo is right, our craftsmen would likely prefer to see their construction finished by their own hands. I think we may proceed once we consult them, yes?”

“Yes, grandfather.” Findekáno made sure to reply first, though he aimed a kick at Maitimo’s ankle below the table.

* * *

The attendance at court was greater than usual today. Harvest season presented new sets of difficulties; there was need of planning the festival, which involved a great deal of organisation between the growers and the cooks. The entertainers had to be arranged for, invites needed sending to the nobles of Alqualondë, and as always, there was a great disturbance over how the streets should be regulated in order to keep them safe and free of crowds.

Findekáno doubted his presence was truly required. But Finwë had called all his sons and daughters and half of his grandchildren to attend; perhaps it was for moral support, and he found it no more engaging than Findekáno did. 

Ñolofinwë’s son was stifling a yawn when he suddenly felt fingers lighting on the top of his knee. It was a familiar touch—Maitimo’s. He’d dutifully sat beside Findekáno, though he had been decidedly more stoic. The number of attendants meant that they were sat very close, however. Findekáno could have returned the gesture, and across the table, none would have known.

Still, Maitimo was usually more reserved than to attempt flirtatious touches in public. Findekáno shot a confused glance in his direction, but he had little in the way if answer—only a tiny, cryptic smile. And Maitimo did not move his hand. There was no reason why it shouldn’t stay there, however. If Maitimo was finally willing to be relaxed around him when they had company, Findekáno was not about to complain, as he had been urging it lately.

And… well, Maitimo had asked not so long ago what would  _satisfy_  him. They’d agreed not to try anything with restraints, fun as that was supposed to be, on the grounds that it would be considerably more difficult to hide what they were doing if someone decided to walk in on them at the wrong moment. Squeezing into Anairë’s maternity dress hadn’t yielded particularly good results, and anything that involved a good deal of talking was another risky venture.

Not that trying things in public was  _safe_  by comparison, but Findekáno had mentioned it…

Even the recollection of the discussion gave him a little shiver of anticipation, though Maitimo’s hand was still placed very demurely against his knee. He must have felt the response, though, because the smirk returned, and then his fingers travelled upwards very slightly to brush against the inside of his cousin’s leg.

 _Now?_ Findekáno was slightly uncertain yet.

 _Ssshh._ Maitimo did not even turn his head, but he angled his fingers so that it was his nails brushing along the seam of Findekáno’s thin leggings; it made the younger Elda tense up, another shiver running up his spine.  _Pay attention, your grandfather is speaking._

It was remarkably hard to focus when Maitimo’s fingers continued to caress their way up towards his hip—and Findekáno could feel his body reacting. His lips parted slightly, and he found he had to look down at the table, worried that his expression would betray how the anticipation of pleasure affected him. Though his lover’s hand had not reached its goal, he could feel his length beginning to harden…

Findekáno exhaled. Hard in his grandfather’s court. If anyone knew…!

By the time Maitimo finally palmed the front of his groin, Findekáno was gripping the edges of his chair, trying to mask how he grit his teeth. Maitimo wouldn’t get him off in here, wouldn’t allow anyone to see his release, which meant he was only teasing and any second he’d draw back—

Eru.

“Findekáno, are you feeling well?” Maitimo asked quietly, turning to him the second after he withdrew his grasp. “Does the meal disagree with you?” 

 _The King’s meal would not disagree with anyone._ Findekáno winced. “Haru, may I be excused?”

* * *

In retrospect, Fingon might have been inclined to say the joke was not even particularly funny. But he and Maedhros had been in high spirits all morning, engaged in debate and sport alike since the sun rose. Even as they stepped into the council room, the taller prince leaned down to murmur into Fingon’s ear, and they both were smirking as they took their seats. 

The target of a number of their jokes was an old Sinda whose hair seemed to be perpetually cut at an uneven angle. Ponderous and slow-speaking, he was normally good humoured. But his particular manner of speech had at first been the source of complaints, and then gradually the hook of more than a few jokes as his misunderstanding of Quenya led to amusing errors.

 It was one word— _one_  mispronounced word later in the council meeting—that set off Fingon’s laughter.

Maedhros’ face broke its composure after a moment too, and his responding snort of laughter only fuelled his cousin’s fit. Around them, the conversation stilled, many sets of eyes coming to rest on the two princes.

Fingolfin was less than amused by the interruption. “Are you two finished?” he asked, remarkably patiently given that his son now had his head braced in his hands, wheezing with the effort of trying to cease his giggling. Maedhros responded with his own cough-like laughter, and if he was better at containing it than his cousin, it was hardly to say he was well-behaved. His eyes creased with amusement, and before long he too was desperately covering his mouth with his left hand in an attempt to muffle the sound. 

Five minutes later the odd giggle still escaped them, their faces still flushed red. But it was not a very long meeting, at least, and before long, Fingolfin dismissed his guests.

When Fingon rose, however, he grabbed him by his sleeve, forcing him to sit. Maedhros cast him an apologetic look as he left.

“What was that about?” Fingolfin’s expression was stern.

Fingon bit down on his lip, and he spoke in a whisper to try and contain himself. “He said—he said the wrong word for manliness—he spoke of the  _manhood_  of our people and…”

His father did not crack a smile.

* * *

Fingon did not sit a prominent position in Finarfin’s court, though his uncle had been quick to forgive. Too quick, he had thought at first, until it occurred to him that his mother must have been speaking in his favour for years before his rebirth. Angrod too, perhaps; he’d been a supportive friend, and was also in attendance at court.

But many people who did not usually present themselves crowded into the hall today, giving the matter the distinct air of a spectacle; Fingon disliked it, and his hands, unbidden, clenched tightly around the arms of his chair.

Before them, Maedhros Fëanorion knelt.

Aman had almost seemed to implode with the news of his arrival; the rumours had started when Nerdanel had been seen on the road to Lórien, and curious eyes were quick to see another head of red hair with her at her return.  _The sons of Fëanor were returning,_ it was soon announced; this session of court had been called almost immediately after.

To his credit—and Fingon thought he looked now with an unbiased eye—Maedhros looked well. His hair was full of the shine it had once held before years of torment made it dim and brittle, and though his face was currently downturned, Fingon had seen it to be free of the deep scars that had once run across it (though his expression was still creased and heavy).

His right hand balanced on his knee, too, and Fingon found it hard to look away.

The words Maedhros spoke sounded carefully practiced, but he had a way of conveying that tone even when he improvised. “I beg for myself forgiveness,” he said, “and forgiveness also for the brothers who I led astray in my madness.”

Finarfin’s face remained still. “If the Valar have deemed you fit for rebirth,” he returned slowly, “then I must follow their judgement…”

 _So much,_  Fingon thought,  _for autonomy._  Finarfin also sounded as if he rehearsed a speech, though somehow it seemed much more likely in his circumstances. Perhaps it was because he did not relent one way or the other; he spoke neither words of punishment nor express forgiveness.

Frowning, Fingon fixated his gaze on Maedhros again—but suddenly his cousin looked up. Not towards Finarfin; his silver eyes locked with Fingon’s blue, and for a moment Fingon thought he saw a look of vulnerability reflected there. Misgivings aside, he knew how it must pain Maedhros to have to submit himself before so many others to judge what they could not understand.

Fingon’s throat tightened. But even if he had wanted to speak then, he could not; it was not the time for interruptions. Not even when every single word he’d ever vowed to say when he saw Maedhros again suddenly pressed into his mind, when impulses to apologise and blame warred for control.

Finarfin’s concluding words were inexact. They sounded like a threat. “We will consider your situation, Nelyafinwë Maitimo.” 

It was more than Fingon could stand to see his old friend retreating towards the door with his head hanging and shoulders slumped forwards. His own body hesitated—

And then he sprang up. Enough eyes had already been fixed on him, but Fingon paid them little attention as he rushed across the hall, in time to halt Maedhros’ advance as he reached the foyer. 


End file.
